


Take That to the (Memory) Bank

by nightwalker



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Ford Pines is a Good Brother, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Finale, Sea Grunkles, Spoilers - Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls, Stan Pines Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 20:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16025195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwalker/pseuds/nightwalker
Summary: Sometimes something happened and Stanley would forget again.Fortunately he's got Ford around to make sure he remembers.





	Take That to the (Memory) Bank

**Author's Note:**

> I'm weak for fics where Stan has memory problems, what can I say? Also for fics where he and Ford work out their baggage a little. Pointless fluff ahead!

Ford was still trying to catch his breath when Stan dropped onto the bench beside him and offered him a beer.

For some reason that made him laugh, which made him even more breathless. He took the proffered drink – in an ice cold bottle, dripping with condensation which meant it was one of the good ones, not Stan's usual god-awful bargain brand. Ford pressed the bottle against his throat for a minute, enjoying the cold against his overheated skin as he looked out over the wide expanse of the ocean, the waters now calm and still, the sky a magnificent royal blue and cloudless for as far as he could see. He laughed again, still breathless, just because he could, and leaned sideways just enough to press his shoulder against Stan's. “That,” he said, “was the most foolish thing either of us has ever done and I once nearly destroyed the entire world.”

Stan took the beer out of his hand and popped the cap off against the edge of the bench seat. Ford had long since given up getting him to stop. The edge of the seat was decorated with scratches and pockmarks after most of a year of such treatment. Sometimes Ford would run his fingers over the mark and remember a hundred different adventures and close calls with Stan. His brother had caught him doing it once and offered to sand the marks down but Ford hadn't let him.

Stan handed the bottle back with a wry grin. “What a coincidence. Me too.”

Ford snickered. “It's the family specialty. The Almost Apocalypse.”

“And dumb decisions in general,” Stan said, clinking his beer against Ford's in a toast. “I cannot believe you let me do that. You're supposed to be the smart one, Poindexter.”

The smile that stretched across Ford's face felt like fresh air. “You seemed very confident that you could handle it.”

“Yes, but I'm an idiot,” Stan said.”You're supposed to be smart enough for both of us.”

“Says the self-taught dimensional physicist,” Ford said dryly. He took a long swallow of beer, the cold liquid more refreshing than it would usually be. He tipped his head back and killed most of the bottle. He nudged Stan with his elbow. “Besides, you once punched an immortal nightmare demon to death – if you tell me you can handle a measly shark I'm going to believe you.” 

“It was a Megalodan,” Stan said.

“A _ghost_ Megalodan,” Ford said and laughed again. “Did you ever imagine?”

“Nope.” Stan leaned into his side a little until they were basically holding each other up. He took a long pull on his beer and set the bottle on the deck when he was done. “I can honestly say I never imagined we'd end up like this.”

It would sting if Ford didn't know his brother better than he once had. Stan had imagined this a thousand times over the last forty years. He'd just never let himself believe it and that – that did sting, even now. Knowing that Stan's faith in them had been so broken, once. Stan's faith in him.

But Ford had earned that regret, and a thousand other little stings and burns over four decades. Stanley had earned his own, Ford knew they were there, could see them in the way his brother's eyes would darken slightly over certain subjects, the way his shoulders would slump at a reminder of some hurt. 

Ford would erase every last one of them if he could, but time travel was currently beyond his capabilities. So he settled for easing the sting wherever possible, seeking what forgiveness he thought Stan could give, offering every forgiveness Stan could need. Sometimes he remembered the anger, the resentment, the way it coiled in his chest and burned him and he couldn't understand himself. He was an old man with too many years of war and fear and loss behind him and he – he could not for the life of him remember why he'd thought anything would ever be more important than keeping his family close to him, and safe. But then he hadn't lost them all yet. Ford always had had to have the evidence in front of him to really understand the consequences.

He tipped the bottle back, let the last few drops slide down his throat. “Come on, Knucklehead,” he said. “It's getting dark. Let's pack it in before more trouble finds us.”

****

Something woke him, deep in the night.

The cabin was nearly pitch black. There were no porthole belowdecks, nothing to let the starlight in, only the soft blue-white light of the star-shaped holiday lights Mabel had given them before they set sail, currently strung up in the galley, where they offered just enough light to serve as a nightlight. Ford blinked slowly, alert and wary, but there was no adrenaline surge, no rush of fear. Whatever woke him, his subconscious seemed to have recognized it.

A moment later he felt Stanley's eyes on him.

He could see the outline of Stan's form, sitting up on the edge of his bunk. He wasn't moving, and as Ford's eyes adjusted further he could see that Stan was leaning forward, elbows propped up on his thighs as he watcheed Ford. Ford watched back for a moment, then asked, “Everything okay?”

“Where are we supposed to be?” Stan asked, and Ford's heart sank to his stomach.

****

Sometimes something happened and Stanley would forget again.

There was no guaranteed trigger for it, at least not that Ford has been able to find. And he had looked. He took extensive notes of each incident and compared them for similarities, looking for a way to predict the next time. Looking for a way to prevent the next time. 

There hadn't been many incidents, for which Ford was almost unspeakably grateful. In his admittedly eventful life there are a great many memories that he shied away from, but one of the worst was the way Stanley looked at him in that field, eyes blank of recognition or care. 

(The worst was the weight of the memory gun in his hand, the pressure of the trigger against his finger, Stan's eyes watching him with trust and not a hint of regret while Ford's heart tried to beat its way out of his chest and his arm shook with effort not to throw the gun aside.)

Ford was willing to do almost anything to never see that look on his brother's face again. The confusion Stanley couldn't hide, the fear that he ruthlessly suppressed. Ford wasn't prone to dramatic emotionalism but the first time Stanley had flinched from him as if he thought Ford was going to hurt him he'd had to close his eyes and breathe to swallow back the surge of bile in his throat. 

There had been fewer than ten incidents over the last two years, and most of them had happened back in Gravity Falls, in the months between Weirdmageddon and setting off in the Stan O'War II. It had only happened a few times since and those moments of forgetfulness were growing further and further apart. Ford wasn't sure if they'll ever stop entirely, but the days when he lived in constant fear that his brother would wake up a blank slate have faded. 

So he watched and he took notes, and if Stanley teased him mercilessly and complained about being turned into another one of Ford's anomalies, he never actually ask Ford to stop, which was pretty much the same as Stan giving him his blessing.

Ford tried to swallow the sour taste of failure. He was no closer to figuring out how to stop this than he had been two years ago, and for a moment the weight of Stan's trust in him felt like an anchor.

Then he exhaled slowly and let that go. There was no blame here, not between them at least. Stan had never blamed Ford for doing what they'd had to do to stop Bill, and he'd never seemed to think that the consequences were unbearable.

Ford, for his part, would have given far, far more to get his brother back, if the universe had demanded it of him. A few days a year spent helping Stan remember was nothing. It was only his brother's distress during those times that made it so hard to face.

He sat up slowly, watching Stan for a reaction. Sometimes Stan was calm and curious, his instincts knowing he was safe, even if his conscious mind couldn't remember why. Sometimes he flinched from every movement and sound, sometimes he looked at Ford as if Ford had been the one to do this to him, which... 

Well. Ford knew the truth of that, and in his darker moments thought he deserved every distrustful glare.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Stan snorted. “I'm not a friggin' idiot, Sixer, I know my own brother when I see him.”

Okay, not a blank slate then. These lapses were easier to handle, most of the time. Sometimes Stan just lost a few months or got his timelines mixed up. He probably was just stuck in a time before they'd set sail. “We're on the Stan-O'-War II. We're about a hundred miles off the coast of Iceland at the moment.”

Stan nodded. “Why?”

“We were looking into an anomaly I detected a few days ago. Do you remember the shark?”

“Shark,” Stan said flatly. “We're out here shark-hunting?”

“No.” Something in Stan's voice cut at him, like a pin prick. He didn't like the flatness of Stan's tone, the way he sat unmoving on the bunk. Had Stan lost more time than Ford thought? Was he remembering the days after Ford came back when all they'd been able to do was argue and snipe at each other? “The shark was the manifestation. It was a paranormal entity.” He propped himself up on his elbow just a little, gauging Stan's reaction to ensure he wasn't making things worse. “What's the last thing you remember before this?”

The cabin fell into a still and heavy silence. Stan was breathing just a foot or so away in the little room, but Ford could barely hear him. His own heartbeat was loud in his ears. Then Stan shifted, seemed to shrug, and said, “Christmas.”

“Oh, that was a while ago.” Ford pushed himself up the rest of the way and reached for his glasses. He put his feet on the floor, ignoring the slight chill in the air. If he stretched out even a few inches he'd be able to nudge Stan's feet, but he kept to his own space. Stan could become intensely defensive when he was off his balance. “It's nearly June.”

“June,” Stan said. 

“It's all right,” Ford said. “I know this must feel confusing. It's just a memory lapse caused by the effects of the gun.”

“Gun?” Stan repeated and there was a harder edge to his voice. “Someone shot me?”

“No – no the memory gun.” Ford tried not to think about the two thick pock marks of scar tissue on his brother's lower back where someone had in fact shot him when he was barely twenty. Ford has a similar wound “When we defeated Bill.” He blinked into the darkness for a long moment, felt the weight of Stan's stare. “Stanley, do you remember Bill?”

Stan didn't say anything for a moment and when he did his tone was wary again. “I've known a few guys by that name. Don't think I gave any of them a good reason to shoot me though.”

“Bill Cipher,” Ford said gently. “He was – he was the reason I built the portal, remember?”

“Your muse told you to. The thing that talked to you in your sleep.” Stan tipped his head to the side. “I always thought you were cracking up. Hallucinating or something. At least till I got to know Gravity Falls better.”

“Well I certainly wasn't at my finest when I wrote any of that.” He'd always been embarrassed by the third journal – filled with his paranoia and fear and more than a tinge of self-loathing, but rereading the first one had been literally painful. To see how thoroughly he'd been duped by Bill, to see the pathetic adoration and hero-worship he'd committed to paper – thank God Dipper hadn't spent all summer reading that one. Ford would never have been able to look his nephew in the eye again. “But Bill was real, Stan. We fought him off, but as a result, sometimes your memory is a little spotty. It always comes back though.”

“Uh-huh.” Stan rubbed his hands together. “And how much have I forgotten exactly?”

“It sounds like bits and pieces of the last two years.” Ford resisted the urge to reach across the distance between them and grasp Stanley's hand. He wished he could see his brother's face better, judge how vulnerable he was feeling. Sometimes touch helped Stan a great deal. Sometimes he would flinch away and lash out. “If you can, it might help to go back to sleep.”

Stan ducked his head and scrubbed both hands over his face. “I want a drink.”

“Not a good idea,” Ford said gently. “We've found that alcohol can sometimes be a trigger for the lapses.” Alcohol, exhaustion, blood loss, and emotional distress were all semi-reliable triggers Ford had identified over the last two years. After the fight earlier Stan had been physically exhausted, Ford had had to haul him off the bench and steer him down the stairs. And he'd put back his beer almost as quickly as Ford had. Honestly, Ford could kick himself for not seeing this coming. “Rest is the best idea. If your memory is still spotty in the morning, there are ways to treat it. I'll help you, I promise. I won't let you forget anything important. But for now the best thing for you is to go back to sleep and let your mind rest.”

“Do I-” Stan's voice seemed to catch for a moment, thick and hoarse. He coughed a little and dragged in a deep breath. “Do I have to go right now? Can I stay, just for a little while?”

“You're not going anywhere,” Ford said, and if his voice came out fierce then let it. “You're not leaving, you're just going to sleep.”

“It's just...” Stan hesitated a long moment and Ford waited. There was a change in Stan's posture, the line of his shoulders softer, his head still hanging low. “I know this isn't real,” he said harshly. “I know this is just my stupid head trying to pretend like everything's going to be sunshine and roses. I know, wherever you are, you're not going to forgive me. But this is the first time in almost twenty-five years it really feels like you're here and I just want to stay, just for a few minutes longer, Sixer, please don't make me wake up yet.”

“Stan.” Ford didn't stop to think, didn't let his head take over because that always made things worse. He threw the blankets back and practically lunged to his feet. He saw the way Stan started slightly, but didn't give him time to react beyond that. His shin banged into the edge of Stan's bed and Ford dropped to the mattress, one leg hooked under himself so he was facing his brother. He wrapped both arms around Stan's shoulders and pulled him in against his chest. “You're not dreaming. I'm here. I swear I'm here. You don't remember right now, but I'm here.”

“Ford.” Stan said his name like he still didn't believe he was really there, but his arms came up to wrap around Ford's waist, returning the hug. “I'm sorry, I'm so fucking _sorry_.”

“It's okay. I forgive you.” Ford tightened his hold a little. “I will always forgive you, even if I'm too stubborn to admit it at first.”

“I cost you everything,” Stan said. He was leaning into the embrace, but it was boneless, exhausted. His arms were strong around Ford's waist but the rest of him was shaking. 

“No you didn't.” Ford shifted his hold so he could spread his palm over the back of Stan's head. “Listen to me. I made my own bed, and I had to lie in it. No one made me trust Cipher but me. No one made me build the portal but me. No one made me lash out at the one person in the entire world willing to help me but _me_. What happened was an accident and I don't blame you.” He sighed, the breath shaky. “And I know you, you knucklehead, so I know you don't think any of this is real, but it took me thirty-two years to come to this personal growth and I'd appreciate you at least pretending to believe me.”

“I don't deserve-”

“Then it's a good thing we don't always get what we deserve, isn't it?” Ford pulled back just enough that he could look at Stan's face. “Listen to me. When I had nothing left, no pride, no peace, no hope, the only thing Cipher couldn't take was my faith in my family. In you. Because no matter how many stupid ass decisions you and I have managed to make over the years, the one thing we've never done, the one thing nothing in the multiverse will ever do, is change the fact that we believe in each other. Even at our worst, you were the one man in the world I knew I could trust.”

“This must be real,” Stan said, “because no way my subconscious is making you act like a sappy old man.”

Ford laughed and pulled him close again, Stan's head on his shoulder, and let his cheek rest on the top of Stan's head. “I've got forty years to make up for, so you have an idea of what to look forward to.”

Stan's fingers curled into fists against his back. “This is real? Like the future or something?”

“This is real. You're going to bring me home. You're going to do it, Stan, there's nothing in the world that can stop you.”

“Oh.” 

They sat there for a long moment, Stan's hands clenched into fists in the back of Ford's nightshirt. Ford rubbed gentle circles over Stan's back – something he'd once seen his brother do for Dipper after a nightmare – and didn't let go.

“When I wake up,” Stan said.

“I'll still be here.” Ford closed his eyes and kept his voice even. “You won't be alone, Stan. Never again.”

****

Ford woke instantly.

He always had, or had for the last thirty something years. The last two years of relative safety had taken the worst of the edge off his paranoia, so he didn't wake with a jerk, jumping to his feet. He stayed where he was for a moment, taking inventory. A dull ache in his back, yes, a painful crick in his neck, yes, Stanley snoring from just a few inches away, and – Ford cracked one eye - Stan drooling all over his shoulder, yes. All right then.

At some point in the night he'd flopped over sideways on Stan's bunk, one leg still hanging off the edge of the bed.. Stan was using his shoulder as a pillow, both of them upside down on the bed, with Stan's feet by his pillow and Ford's head pressed uncomfortable against the footboard. Ford grimaced and rolled his neck as much as he could. His back would be killing him all day, he could only imagine how much trouble Stan's would be giving him. 

As if Ford's thoughts had been enough to waken him, Stan stirred with a long, rumbling groan. His eyes squeezed shut tight for a moment and without moving an inch he asked, “Did you get the license plate number of the truck that ran me over?”

“There are no trucks on the ocean, Stanley.”

“I cannot deal with you this early in the morning, Stanford.”

Ford laughed. “I think we both overslept, actually.” He could see sunlight coming in around the edges of the door, and while he hadn't quite worked up the energy to lift his head and check the time, his internal clock was usually pretty reliable. He shifted his right arm, currently pinned between Stan's not inconsiderable form and the mattress, and wiggled free enough to more or less pat his brother's back. “Do you know where you are?”

“I'm _trying to sleep_ ,” Stan said. He still hasn't opened his eyes and is basically a boneless heap on the other half of the bed. “On my boat. With my brother. Just like he promised I would be.”

Ford closed his eyes again and took a deep breath, tension he hadn't even realized was still there slowly easing out of his bones.

“Course a real brother would have made me coffee after a rough night like that, but I guess that's too much to ask for.”

Ford groaned and shoved Stan away. “Don't push it, Knucklehead.”

Stan laughed and stretched out on the bed, before yawning so hard his jaw made a painful sounding popping noise. “I'm fine, Sixer, really. Whatever had me spacing out last night, it's worn off. Wanna quiz me?”

His eyes were drooping shut and his words slurring together. Ford very much doubted he'd be able to tell Ford his own name in a minute. “Go back to sleep.” He waited a minute for Stan's breathing to even out and his body to go limp and boneless in sleep before he carefully rolled off the bed and onto his feet. He waited a moment to make sure Stan was well and truly asleep, then he pulled one of the blankets off his bunk and carefully draped it over his brother's sleeping form.

Then he went to make coffee. He had to hurry, though. He'd promised to be here when Stan woke up.


End file.
